


Strange Magic

by EwanMcGregorIsMyHomeboy12



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Cigarette Smoking, Empath Will Graham, Father Hannibal Lecter, Fluff, Gen, Hannibal Being His Usual Helpful Self, Hannibal is Hannibal, Hannibal is a Cannibal, It's Hard to Quantify, Jealousy, M/M, Manipulative Hannibal, Mental Health Issues, Murder, Murder Family, Possessive Hannibal, Psychological Codependency, Sex, Technically So are a Lot of People, The Chesapeake Ripper Walks at Midnight, Will Graham Discovering Himself, Will's Empathy as a Strange Power, almost, lack of emotions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2017-09-30
Packaged: 2018-12-09 19:30:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11675601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EwanMcGregorIsMyHomeboy12/pseuds/EwanMcGregorIsMyHomeboy12
Summary: An angry woman at the red light. A lust-filled teenager with his girlfriend in the alley behind the school. An belligerent father, fueled by alcohol. All things Will Graham can feel simply by walking by the apartment building next to his work at the FBI.His empathy makes him the best the FBI has. It makes his life nearly unbearable.He walks the streets of Baltimore in a constant bombardment of other people's emotions, until he sees a man and his daughter out on the streets and for once, maybe for the first time, he can relax. Around a stranger. Around another person.Almost addicted to the calm that Hannibal Lecter exudes, Will Graham allows himself to be pulled deeper and deeper into a darkness he didn't realize was growing inside himself. He watches as the life he has carefully constructed beings to crumble as Hannibal offers him the one thing he has never had: The opportunity to be only himself.





	1. The Stranger

**Author's Note:**

> So, I'm thinking, based on my current plans, that this will be a five chapter story, structured very similarly to this first one. I hope you enjoy! Please R and R, let me know what you think!

The first time he sees him, he’s standing outside of a haberdashery and Will thinks that given the opportunity, he might punch him in the face. He isn’t quite sure why, Will Graham is rarely aware of the source of his own impulses, particularly since they aren’t always necessarily his own. But there’s something about this man, in his long peacoat that keeps out snow far better than Will’s fishing jacket, and the accented lilt he is speaking to what must be his daughter in that makes him resist the urge to deck him and instead leads him to light his fourth cigarette that hour.

It isn’t the man’s fault, he knows. He doesn’t know Will Graham, and he’s certain that both parties would like to keep it that way. And Will’s also certain that the little girl, in a matching peacoat,  its bright purple and makes her look like a miniature Willy Wonka, finds the man discussion of men’s fashion accessories riveting enough to stand there and listen to him in the cold. It isn’t the man’s fault that he seems to be the first person Will finds calming enough when he walks by that he isn’t flooded by a wave of horrendous, overwhelming emotion that threatens to swallow him up. It isn’t his fault that instead of feeling relieved at that, he almost wishes the man were dead so its easier to accept that something is wrong with Will Graham like everyone else already thinks.

But he doesn’t punch him. Or toss out any of the foul language behind his lips that is blocked by thin trails of cigarette smoke that spiraled upwards away from his face. He sits on a bench, ignoring the ice that melts and soaks the bottom of his jacket and would have soaked through his jeans if he ever bothered to buy new clothes that were the right size. He watches the man take the little girls hand, apparently deciding the collection of high end belts and hats aren’t enough to gauge their interest and allows himself to be led to a high-end popsicle store despite the fact that the temperature hasn’t crested above freezing in days and they are going to be the shops only occupants besides the confused cashier.

He sees the man’s polite smile as the pair walks past. And he thinks that the little girl, who he can feel is happy and excited and in great anticipation of her popsicle really looks nothing like him at all. He doesn’t smile back, but lets the cigarette burn into a tiny stub before he immediately lights another one. The man tips his head, and Will can see the vague interest, possibly because he’s been staring at them for the past five minutes, but in this moment, the need for popsicles far outweighs the need for interaction with a man who is trying his hardest to not be prone to violence.

 

 

The second time he sees him, it’s at the bus stop. Will Graham is trying his best to shield himself from everyone else, despite the fact that an elderly woman keeps pressing her cane onto his foot and there’s a small child wiping snot on whatever he can reach. It’s not a place Will would expect to see the man, and in fact, he wasn’t waiting for the bus like what Will would consider the rest of Baltimore’s peasant class. He was helping the same little girl in the same pink coat that catches his eye before the man does himself.

He’s talking to someone else, a man who looks far more like the little girl now buckled into a black Bentley. Will can feel the animosity coming from the other man, but not from his persistent stranger. He doesn’t want to punch him this time. Instead, he steps out of the way of the crowd as the bus pulls up, feeling the excitement of those behind him who now may not have to stand and get thrown around when they pull past the big turn on McCroix Avenue. He can feel a man’s internal dilemma before he sacrifices his seat to the old lady with the cane, repaid with a slight stab of pain when she pokes him in the foot anyway. He can feel the drivers annoyance at every card that doesn’t scan on the first try and for every person on their cell phone who doesn’t return his obligatory smile. But for once, he can ignore those things.

He watches the man, transfixed by the aura he’s exuding. Almost no emotions. Things bubbling just lightly under the surface: care for the girl, distrust for the man. But nothing so invasive that Will couldn’t breathe when he reached out to him. He felt his own stab of jealousy, something distinctly from his insides that for once he is certain isn’t coming from someone else. He is jealous of this man and his ability to control his emotions. Will Graham has no choice in the matter: he controls his own well enough, but the rest of the world hardly has the politeness to do the same. 

“Hey, buddy, you getting on or not?” But he ignores the driver, starting to walk away, reaching for the pack of cigarettes that have shaped the inside of his pocket to light one. Even dulled emotions can be overwhelming, and the nicotine takes the edge off. He stays watching, listening to the squeak of the air brakes as the pocket of mismatched feelings finally leaves him to his own devices. The man’s companion leaves, and he turns to Will.

Subtlety isn’t part of this man’s game and instead he smiles at Will, lifting his eyebrows. Will swallows. Maybe he knows. Like Jack Crawford does. Like Alana Bloom does. Like everyone else who finds reasons not to see him outside of work seems to. But this man smiles, and as Will watches, he fishes something from his wallet and leaves it on the parking meter before he gets into his car that’s too nice to be driving around in the black snow full of dirt and exhaust that coats the edge of the streets.

He feels very outside of himself, the steadying presence of the man lingering in his mind as he walks forward to take it. It’s a card with intricate font that far more resembles handwriting than something a computer might make with thin lines that intersect at odd angles. It’s a business card, and finally, below all of the titles hooked to the end of the last name, there is a phone number he can call if he wants.

He swallows, feels the burn of his cigarette filter far too close to his lips for comfort so he spits it out in a rare moment of emotionless reaction. He stares at it, letting a wayward snow flake smear the first md after the name before he pockets it and starts to walk home, staying away from the parking meters and the bouts of anger that inevitably accompany them when people who haven’t paid somehow feel wronged by other people doing their jobs.

 

 

The third time he sees him, he’s pouring them matching glasses of a wine the exact color of blood from the last crime scene he worked in a kitchen that feels almost clinical in its efficiency. “I wasn’t certain you would call.” Hannibal Lecter’s voice is unlike anything he had heard before, heavily accented, calming, but with a touch of amusement behind his words. For Will Graham, it is everything in that moment. From childhood, when he could feel the anger, loneliness,  disgruntlement, abandonment, and waves of withdrawal when the whiskey would run dry stemming from his own father, he had rarely been this close to another person for more than a few minutes. No help for the kid who couldn’t make friends because he couldn’t suspend the belief that they didn’t like him. No lying to the kid who could feel how much you hated him.

“I usually don’t.” He answered honestly and tasted the wine. It was sweet, heavy on his tongue, but he didn’t complain. Months of drinking whiskey by himself had burned the sensitivity from his mouth. He watched Hannibal lift it to his nose, breathing in the aromas of whatever the French vineyard had decided to bottle this had made certain to include for people with palettes refined enough to care.

“I take it then, that you often have people leave their business cards in the hope you might call.” Will actually smiled, resisting the impulse to snort into his drink at the sarcasm, settling instead for a shake of his head.

“Where is the little girl?” He said, changing the subject from himself because it was easier than fielding questions when they would inevitably come.

“Abigail is at her other father’s.” Hannibal answered smoothly. Will watched him as he turned to the oven, pulling out something that smelled incredible and unplaceable. He felt his first spark of unmuted emotion form Hannibal: satisfaction. Not something overwhelming. Gone in an instant. Perhaps it should have unsettled him that Hannibal seemed to be very much aware of what emotions he was exuding. Instead, he chose to let it comfort him. How could he not, when everyone else he had ever known had seemed to be pushing towards the edge of madness as quickly as they could?

“Dinner is served.” Hannibal said, and Will followed him to the dining room, allowing himself to be pulled into the stability that swirled around him. He could tell what he was feeling: the nervous anticipation of dinner with a handsome stranger, the small stirring of preliminary desire rolling his gut, hunger that seemed to increase as Hannibal plated their food and explained what they were eating in decorative French. He closed his eyes for a moment, only a moment, feeling a second spark of almost brilliant intrigue before he opened his eyes to meet Hannibal Lecter’s maroon ones and smiled for being able to enjoy himself.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to those that read, kudosed, or reviewed on the last chapter, and welcome any new folks who might stop by! I hope you enjoy, please R and R, let me know what you think :)

When he woke up with no sweat plastered to his forehead, there was an overwhelming sense of nothing other than the unfamiliarity of waking up in a bed that was not his own. For a moment, as realization trickled back into him, he wanted to laugh at himself. He had become so enthralled with Hannibal’s lack of emotions that he had hardly been able to control his own and the night had become a whirlwind of expensive wine and heady conversation until it had ended here, where he was now, in a mess of sweat-tangled limbs and so much heat that he felt like he might burn alive in it.

And now, the smell of fresh brewing coffee came up through the air. He sat up, letting the thick comforter slide off of him as best it could where his inevitable thrashing had wrapped it around his legs. His mouth tasted like expensive wine and his brain burned for a cigarette. His glasses brought new clarity to the bedroom he was in, showing the dark wood finish of all the furniture which matched perfectly to the walls, the carpet, even the paintings. He kept his eyes from the artwork. Art was strange for him, always. There was always a chance of feeling too much from the harsh lines or gentle curves. Of his mind going to the same places the artist’s had been, down dark corners or even blissful paths that proved to be overwhelming.

Instead, his eyes settled on the neatly folded stack of clothing on the dresser with his name written in elegant script on a note. His own clothing had mysteriously disappeared, though it wasn’t difficult to figure out where since Hannibal Lecter’s discarded clothes were also gone and there was a slight hint of laundry detergent over the thick waft of coffee.

When he pulled the sweater over his head, he was amazed at much it smelled like the sheets when he had fallen onto them the night before: clean and clear. The clothes were too large, but his own clothes rarely fit, and Will Graham was not one to complain. At least, not out loud. It was easy to learn good manners when every small mark of frustration, irritation, or even slight annoyance could be felt with perfect clarity. People did not care if Will Graham was uncomfortable, and he had long since stopped letting them know of his discomfort.

“Good morning, Will.” Hannibal’s back was turned as he cooked what had to be some sort of glorified omelette on the stove. “I take it you found the clothes I left for you, yours are in the wash.”

“You didn’t have to do that.” Will knew better than to offer to help. No one he had met, with the exception of his dogs appreciated his cooking in the slightest. He supposed burned salmon and toast could only assuage so many palates and on the rare occasion he did enjoy dinner with the likes of Jack Crawford or Beverly Katz, he had learned it was best to do so at a restaurant.

“I know.” He could hear the humor in Hannibal’s tone, but could not feel the spark that usually accompanied such things in others. If Hannibal Lecter had genuinely amused himself, he hid it well, and Will couldn’t help but smile.

“I do like the sweater though, smells like Downy.” He heard Hannibal give a breathy sort of laugh before the man turned to press him a cup of fresh coffee from some sort of overwrought contraption on the counter. Immaculate, even though it was still early morning. Will must have slept through the man showering since the end of his hair were still damp and he hadn’t combed it back so severely that he looked like a doctor Will might be weary of. A striped shirt, covered at the waist by a heavy cotton apron. It was an odd sight for Will, more domestic than he was used to.

He remembered his last one-night stand. It certainly hadn’t ended in breakfast. He hadn’t been able to sleep, able to feel every emotion rolling off of the angry, slightly buzzed woman next to him as she had tequila-induced dreams about any and everything. Finally, when it was finally light enough for an excuse to leave, he had, taking Winston for an almost two-hour walk, relived to find her gone when he had returned, only a leftover biscuit and a can of Coke missing to show she had ever been there at all.

“Did you sleep well?” Hannibal asked lightly, and Will couldn’t feel enough to tell if that was because he was genuinely curious or because he knew otherwise. While it was true this was the most rested, least overwhelmed, and least sleep Will had felt in as long as he could remember ever feeling those things; he would not say that he slept well. Less badly perhaps.

“I don’t sleep well.” He finally responded, taking a deep drink of coffee to avoid speaking again. Hannibal’s lips pressed into a thin smile and he held Will’s gaze for the first time that morning.

“So I could tell.” He said. “Though you did not seem particularly troubled being in an unusual place.”

“Are we in therapy, Doctor Lecter?”

“Simply a conversation, Will. You’ll have to forgive my questions. My curiosity is innate and near impossible to turn off. Particularly where you are concerned.” Will stopped drinking the coffee, which was delicious, and resisted the urge to reach a hand for cigarettes that would not be there.

“We met yesterday.” Hannibal cocked his head as if indicating there was more to the story than that, but offered no explanation of such. Will could feel his own anxiety bubbling up. This wouldn’t be the first time something like this had happened. Someone who wanted to spend time with him, even sleep with him, for the wow factor of sleeping with a man with his abilities. Wanted to see if it was true and the sex was better, or they wanted a favor from him in exchange. One woman had tried to sleep with him so he would tell her if her husband was having an affair: He had never quite followed her logic.

“I did not bring you here because I wanted to be able to boast this experience as idle gossip, Will.” Hannibal said, flipping the omlette out of the pan and slicing it in half in one fluid motion. “But I will not lie that I find you fascinating, particularly after our conversation yesterday.”

Will looked down at his omelette, his stomach growling. He took another sip of coffee before reaching for his fork, holding Hannibal’s gaze. “I don’t know if I find you that interesting.” A lie of course, a complete lie. He felt real amusement from Hannibal, a spark of something deep, but the man said nothing until after he took his first bite and the same slight of satisfaction Will had felt from him at dinner came into play.

“You will.”

 

“I like your curly hair.” Abigail Lecter Hobbs did not posses the same sort of emotional control as her father. But then again, Hannibal was not her biological father, and Will could feel the darkness radiating from Garrett Jacob Hobbs like  waves of almost electricity. Anger, jealousy, rage: all aimed at Will when he could be seen in the passenger side of Hannibal’s Bentley when it was time to pick Abigail up a few days later. “Can I touch it?”

Will didn’t know what to say to her. It was an innocent question, but touching people only allowed him to feel their emotions even more than he normally did, and though she was only a child, Abigail was teeming with them. He wished Hannibal were in the car, but he was talking to his former partner, who Will could feel and hear shouting about Will’s presence right outside the car.

“Sorry for asking. That was rude.” Abigial said, and Will felt her shrink back into her seat, suddenly shy.

“No.” He said, feeling guilty, “Thank you for asking first.” And he felt her get a little happier. Will sighed, keeping guard over the emotional states of others was a full-time job that no one paid him for. Something he could never turn off. Something he felt guilty not listening to when it told him another person was in distress. He was being selfish then, he knew, spending the last three days in Hannibal’s company where there was no pressure to make the man happy, to bring him any sort of satisfaction because he was more than capable of finding it on his own. Will could cry with relief, but instead watched as Hannibal continually tried to end the conversation with Hobbs before finally, he left the man to yell at nothing on the sidewalk before getting back in the car regardless.

“I apologize for his behavior.” Will swallowed, feeling the man’s eyes on him as they pulled away from the curb, able to feel the resentful nature of the man like tiny tendrils winding their way around his lungs. “He is rude.” Will could feel the muted feeligns of Hannibal as he had learned to, though they were increasingly unexpected. Now he could feel distaste and a strange desire bubbling right below the surface.

“I like Will’s curly hair, Papa.” Abigail said from the backseat, and Will felt her press her tiny, light-up shoes into the back of his.

“As do I, darling.” And Will smiled again, though this time, he looked out the window to hide his face.

 

 

“You seem calmer today, Graham.” It wasn’t the word Will would use. He wasn’t sure that he ever didn’t feel calm. It was hard to get overexcited about anything when everything was overly exciting. But he supposed that he had less of an urge to wrap his hands around Zeller’s throat as he made sarcastic comments to hide his own overwhelming discomfort, and he felt less twitchy since he was farther way from the forensics team who all chattered about how horrible this all was while they hardly felt anything other than a patent numbness Will felt it was a job requirement to have at the FBI. “Everything okay?” Jack put a hand on his shoulder and Will resisted the urge to twist away from the genuine concern he could feel centered there. “You aren’t on some kind of medication are you?”

That’s what he needed. Xanex to dull his own senses while everyone else’s seemed to get stronger. Jack Crawford, for all his good intentions, understood very little. This had always been obvious to Will, he wondered how long it had been obvious to Jack when under the persona of confidence and self-assurance, he could feel the doubt pulsing like a living, breathing animal. “No.” Will said, continuing to fill out his written description of the crime scene so that they could dissect it at every turn back at headquarters and turn in a long-winded, grammatically correct version for the mission briefing. “I met someone.” It was none of Jack’s business, of course, but this would get him to stop asking.

Will could feel the surprise, and figured he should be more hurt by it. But he truthfully didn’t care. Jack was right to be surprised. Will had, in all of his employ, never dated anyone to Jack’s knowledge. He would hardly do anything with others, in any way, let along romantically. The surprise was genuine, not malicious, but Will couldn’t help the sigh.

“Have you talked to Dr. Bloom about her?” His psychiatrist was an interesting woman. She cared too much.

“Him. And no. I will if its comes up.” To be on the force, he had to see her at least once a month. He kept those meetings short. There wasn’t much to talk about except his own mounting frustration at the unfairness of his own disorder. She was attracted to him, intrigued by him: it was all there, open to him, but like so many others, she fancied herself good at hiding things and was yet to say anything about those things to Will. Not that he cared anymore. Only at the beginning of their relationship had he let himself feel that small coil of desire and picture her, blissfully emotionless, asleep in bed next to him: his own body sated and tired. That was a vision that could never happen. Not with her.

With Hannibal though, it was more than possible. He was yet to wake before the man, who he was partially convinced did not sleep at all, but perhaps one day he would find him still stretched out on the pillows next to him, his emotions as muted as Will needed them to be, like he had when he had woken in the middle of the night during his second stay at Hannibal’s house.

It was a desire someone like Jack Crawford could never understand. Most people strove for a deeper, emotional connection to those around them. Will knew for a fact that was far overrated. It was much better to only have to deal with the scratched surface of people, there was far less of a chance of anyone getting hurt.

“Well, just tell me if you…”

“Let’s get back to the scene, Jack.” Will said, walking towards the more comforting silence of the dead and away from the defeated man behind him who let his hand fall to his side with a defeated thud.   


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long pause on this one, I have a couple of other Hannibal stories I was working to get finished and started, but I'm glad to be back working on this one. As always, I hope you enjoy! Please R and R, let me know what you think :)

He could feel the shift in their relationship as soon, and as subtly as it happened. Hannibal’s general, near-blank façade had been replaced by a nuanced buzzing. Not as calming as it had once been, but he could keep it contained enough that it didn't disturb Will from his usual routine. He had thought at first it was agitation. Perhaps at Will’s growing comfort in Hannibal’s home, or his occasional insistence that they stay in Wolf Trap to care for the dogs and Hannibal would wake to find stray dog hairs on his suit or the occasional bit of slobber on his loafers. It didn’t seem to faze him, however, and Will could feel no emotional change in him as he lifted them to his face to inspect the damage. Thus far, nothing had changed for what he could tell. Perhaps Hannibal was growing bored with him.

Now,  as his Will’s own work had picked up at the Bureau with the reemergence of Baltimore’s Finest, The Chesapeake Ripper, his social was picking up as well for the first time. He was attending his first Lecter dinner party, a late summer festivity that had filled the entirety of Hannibal’s with the smell of spices and sweet wine.

Abigail, still not back in school, was invited as well. Of course she was. Abigail Lecter Hobbs was the most polite child Will was yet to meet, he could only imagine she was like Hannibal must have been as a child. He doted on her, though he would never admit it. Even now, he was showing her the array of knives on the counter, which were best for which cuts of meat or slices of bread or for peeling the thin skins off of resistant zucchinis that were bound to be seared in an onion flavored broth for a dish Will could not pronounce but Abigail managed. When Hannibal had enquired who Will wanted to sit with, having him the guest list, he had chosen her.

“I would have thought Jack Crawford would have called you away today.” Hannibal said, not turning to look. Will could feel a flash of something: not irritation, but almost a picante nervousness that Hannibal was controlling.

“I told him not to.”

“And that worked?” Abigail giggled at Hannibal’s inquiry, prying a clove off a bulb of garlic with persistent fingers. The man smiled at her, flashing his crooked teeth down towards her. For her birthday, she had requested an apron to match her father’s, and Hannibal had come through easily. She loved the starched white fabric, even as she spilled dots of sauces and heavy creams while Hannibal’s remained pure white. Hannibal insisted she loved Will’s gift of a small journal set just as well, but Will knew better than that. It was preferred, at least, to Garret Jacob Hobbs’ gift of a new coat, since he told Abigail that her purple coat that Hannibal purchased made her look silly. The new coat was yet to be unwrapped.

“I think he believes I’m of some use of you today, since he’s attending the party tonight.”

“That would be quite rude of him, indeed then.”

 

He had counted on dinner being a large part of the evening. He had not counted on small talk being an even more significant bit, as apparently appetizers were served on rotating trays to standing guests who were talking animatedly about business ventures Will had no interest in. He was, however, practically a celebrity as everyone except Jack Crawford and Alana Bloom were fascinated that Hannibal was dating again.

He had listened now to countless stories of what had caused it all to go wrong with Garret Jacob Hobbs. The fights that the man would pick, the attempts to turn Abigial against Hannibal, all talked about in hushed whispers so that their host, passing from group to group as eh was demanded, wouldn’t hear. Under their skin, he could feel the jealousy as they looked him over, disparate with their own spouses in the face of Hannibal Lecter.  He could feel, after a few minutes of one-sided conversation, the twitches of sublte anger that he had managed to win what they saw as a prize. He would stare back at them until he could feel them almost unsettle before he would break the tension with a bit of quick wit. An exhausting reminder of the control he had, the dependency that others did.

For once, Will was relieved when Jack came to stand with him, complimenting his suit and giving him unsolicited updates on the latest ripper killings. Will wondered how much wine he would have to drink before his sense of hearing disappeared. He would close his eyes, and his mind would be full of the Ripper, of Jack Crawford’s anger at having been fooled again and his determination to press on. He could feel the almost self-loathing that would accompany Jack each time he took an Hors d'oeuvre when he could be pouring his body and mind into the case. Will was waiting until that anger was directed at him for doing the same.

As dinner came closer, his mind continued to expand. He caught bare pieces of conversation, the tail ends of anecdotes and thoughts he wouldn’t understand. When they finally made it to the table, he very nearly closed his eyes as Hannibal began speaking, feeling the general enamored feeling of the crowd as the man explained their courses in perfectly fluent romance languages with the pride of a man who enjoyed his work, Will focused on him, letting the relief wash over him as all he could feel was Hannibal’s mild amusement at his own small jokes, the small bit of pride as the group clapped a collective for him, the satisfaction as they began to take their first bites. Will could feel Abigail’s pride stronger than Hannibal’s however, the adoration that was genuine instead of perhaps mildly spiteful as he could feel from the rest.

The food was as delicious as it was theatrical, propped up into elaborate sculptures made of meat and sauces accented with bones. Hannibal engaged in conversation with Alana Bloom, sitting to his left, opposite of Will, and Will could finally be at peace for a moment as his feelings matched those of the people around him: the satisfaction of a good meal with good company.

The peace didn’t last however, and as Abigail finally began to eat at the pile of cranberries she had collected from the seemingly dozens of dishes spread down the table, Hannibal tapped his near-empty glass for everyone’s attention. He closed a warm hand over Will’s own sitting on the table. Will stood as it was clear Hannibal wanted him to, moving to the end of the table.

“I take it you have all met William by now.” The group was watching them now, captivated by the scene. Will could feel the collective wonder at what was happening, the inherent excitement as someone figured out what this would mean. “I have never met someone so prone to understanding, with whom I can share my whole self without fear of retribution.” Will felt his face redden, but kept his eyes on Hannibal’s, letting the man’s calm confidence wash over him.

And the rest of the scene passed in an almost blur. His eyes staying on Hannibal’s as he pulled a ring from his pocket and asked a question Will had never expected to be able to say yes to. To his acceptance, to his promise to get Hannibal one that matched, to the kiss that they shared. All the way to the overwhelming satisfaction practically beating out of Hannibal’s chest as dessert was served. There was something else there, replacing the nervousness. Every time Hannibal looked at him, eyes lingering on his lips or on his hand where the band now glittered, he could feel confidence. Love, perhaps. But more so an eagerness that Will couldn’t quite place.

That night, sweating and panting, wrapped in high-thread count sheets and having to stay quiet because of Abigail sleeping down the hall, Will could feel it again. Maybe this time, from himself. A strange feeling, darker than he would like to admit.

Not quite just eager. Not quite love. As he turned, dark maroon eyes still fixed on him, he could feel the strongest flash of it. From both of them, perhaps.

Possession.


End file.
